Family Values
by randommuffintpk
Summary: After being dragged along by his mother to help take care of his dying grandfather in the United States, fifteen-year-old John Watson is bored out of his skull. Until his first day of tenth grade, where he meets Sherlock Holmes — a pale, death-obsessed loner who is a visiting relative of a very, very odd family. Addams Family universe.


_Hi, everyone. This will be a multichaptered story of as-of-yet undetermined length, and will take place in whatever universe the Addams Family – thank you, Charles Addams – exists. I'm working on my other stories as well, but to battle writer's block I try not to write in a rigid or linear fashion. I go where the feels take me, you know? Anyway, I think that this is going to be fun. The rating for this story will not go up, by the way, so don't ask. I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I did writing it._

_Disclaimer: No own. No money. No sue._

Chapter One: First Impressions

As he stared sullenly at the sky from the backseat of his aunt's dusty '87 Volvo Turbo Wagon, John Watson resisted the urge to sigh and roll his eyes like some dramatic teenager.

Well, he _was_ a teenager, but he liked to think of himself as the calm, unruffled, nothing-gets-to-me type – he wasn't a _teenager_, but a _young adult_, and there was a world of difference between those two terms. He wasn't dramatic. He wasn't suddenly becoming aware of (and obsessed with) sex. On the other hand, he did love sweaters and tea and had a strange, inexplicable affection for hedgehogs. All in all, from the author's perspective, John was a bit of an old soul, despite his physical shell at the beginning of this tale being a mere fifteen years, one hundred fourteen days, nine hours, twelve minutes, and fifty-four seconds old. An old soul that currently wanted to sigh and roll his eyes like some dramatic teenager, but an old soul nevertheless.

America. If having to pack up and move at a moment's notice hadn't been irritating enough, the fact that John and his mother were coming to live in the United bloody States was just the topper on a rather disappointing cake. John imagined that a Rather Disappointing Cake would look quite a lot like his twelfth birthday cake: soggy and a disconcerting shade of greenish-brown. This unnerving shade was what met John's eyes as his aunt's car rolled past the sign: "ENTERING SALEM – Est. 1626."

Whenever a person thought of Massachusetts, Boston usually came to mind – towering buildings, Fenway Park, and that ridiculous accent that few people could successfully imitate without sounding either like a cartoon animal or just plain insulting. Salem, Massachusetts, on the other hand, was…brown. And grey. It looked as though what little green existed was slowly being choked out by the same sort of resentful discontent that was currently settling in the pit of John's stomach. Not a very cheery place.

He noticed that the town was as a whole rather dreary, except for a main street that was filled with little curio shops and witch-themed pubs – _bars, they're called "bars" here_ – and restaurants; the primary colour theme seemed to be composed of purple and black, with the odd splashes of nauseatingly vibrant lime green or primary yellow. It was like that street was the final resting place of some garish Goth circus that had come for a pit stop and stayed forever because they either ran out of gas or lost the will to go on living. At least the rest of the town looked relatively ordinary – complete with fly-filled public swimming pool and seedy motel.

There was this dilapidated mansion that the Turbo Wagon passed just before they got to Grandpa Thomas' place – quite hard to miss, really. It was tall and dark and John spotted at least three cracked windows. With peeling grey paint and dark shutters, it looked like Satan's quaint little colonial getaway. _0001 Cemetery Lane_ hung above a dark brass knocker on the front door. And how appropriate: there appeared to be a family plot on the grounds, and some of the statues seemed (it was hard to make out from the car – Aunt Evelyn had, for some reason, sped up significantly to get past the house) to be oddly-shaped and in varying shades of disrepair. The overall effect was fascinating yet discomfiting.

As soon as the car pulled into the driveway of Grandpa Thomas' home – a modest Federal-style house with pale yellow siding and red shutters – John climbed out and attempted to stretch his cramped leg and back muscles. "We're here!" Aunt Evelyn declared unnecessarily. John grunted and his mother smiled hopefully up at the house.

"Isn't it beautiful, John?" she said, smiling down at him (yes, John was two inches shorter than his mother, but she _was_ five-foot-six and he still had time to grow. Hopefully). "It won't be so bad here." Rather than say anything that could be construed as negative, John went to retrieve his suitcase from the boot – _trunk? I think it's "trunk"_ – of the Wagon. He could feel the sleepy dullness of the town seeping into his clothing already.

Undaunted by her sister's and nephew's reactions, Aunt Evelyn went to join John at the _trunk_ to help with his mum's – _mom's. Dammit, I hate this already_ – plethora of suitcases and bags. "I'll admit, when Dad bought this place a few years ago I thought he must be going mad to want to move to the States," she chirped. John bit back a sarcastic _Hear-hear!_ "But he's really come to like it," she continued, lugging an enormous suitcase down the front cement path and up to the front door. "It's really quite peaceful here."

No sooner had she said that than an ear-splitting shriek ripped through the air, followed by a loud _boom_. John jumped a foot high and swore loudly, he along with his mother looking around frantically in search of the source of the scream. "What _was_ that?" John's mum cried, running towards the front door in terror.

To John's surprise, his aunt looked completely unruffled. "The neighbours," she muttered, rolling her eyes as she patted her sister's shoulder comfortingly. "Must be on one today. Don't worry, though, it doesn't happen too often."

"Neighbours? What neighbours?" John's mum's face was a study in indignation.

"The family in that old mansion that we passed. The dilapidated greyish one with the family plot."

John raised a blond brow. "So are screams and explosions a regular thing in that house?"

Aunt Evelyn made a face. "I'd rather not discuss it right now. Let's get the luggage inside and say hello to Dad."

* * *

Hamish Thomas was dying, that much was obvious. With waxy skin and sunken eyes, he looked as though he was slowly turning into a skeleton. He was only sixty-four, and colon cancer seemed to be triumphing over the man's will to live. Cancer seemed to run in the Thomas family, and John was absolutely terrified that it would ultimately be his demise, as it was for his grandfather and great-uncle. Still, as John, his mother, and his aunt entered Hamish's bedroom, the old man cracked a large smile and beckoned them to his bedside. "Em," he exclaimed, taking John's mum's hand between both of his. "It's lovely to see you – you're beautiful as ever. And who is this?" He turned to eye John.

"Hullo, Grandpa," John said, ducking his head slightly. It'd been six years since he'd last seen his grandfather – before Hamish had moved to America – and he remembered him as being stern, stiff, and unyielding. The man before him with tired eyes and wispy hair was nothing like he remembered: for one thing, he was smiling, which John had only seen happen once before.

How utterly shitty it is that some people find their humanity only when they're about to lose it.

John mulled this over as his grandfather exclaimed at how tall he was getting (John was five-foot-four. That is not very tall) and asked him if he had a girlfriend yet, to which John blushed and stammered out a "not yet". But according to Grandpa Thomas, many American girls absolutely adored English accents, and he'd land a girlfriend in no time. After all, he was starting school tomorrow, year ten – _tenth grade, I'll be a "sophomore," whatever that means_ – and he was to go to bed soon and get plenty of sleep for the next day.

Bidding his family goodnight, John trudged up the stairs to his small room, changed into his pyjamas, brushed his teeth, and then spent the next two hours trying to force himself to sleep.

* * *

John stared at the scene before him in what could only be described as bewilderment.

School buses. Honest-to-god, long, yellow school buses, looking like shiny metal Twinkies, lined the curb at the front of the rectangular brick building. John looked up at the boxy structure with the odd feeling that he was in a movie, and that any moment now a gaggle of scantily clad cheerleaders would perform a dance routine on the front lawn as a flock of American football jocks whistled and whooped. As he looked around and saw ripped jeans and baseball caps, he felt ridiculously out of place in his nice trousers and red jumper. He must look like a prat.

Deciding that he was going to do his best to fit in, John squared his shoulders and walked through the main doors.

It wasn't the ostentatiously large American flag hanging right above the doorway of John's first class that caught his eye. It wasn't the glaringly obvious lack of student uniforms – sagging pants paired with neon skate shoes seemed to be a normal thing within the young adult male demographic round here – that made him stop in his tracks. Hell, not even the cute girl with wavy chestnut hair who was smiling at him from the front row of desks was what distracted him. It was the boy sitting in the middle desk of the room.

The way the other children avoided being within two feet of him in all directions made for a comical picture: the loud, bright teenagers who were sitting down at their desks automatically scooted them away from that of the centre student, as though they were used to such a routine. The aforementioned boy – who looked at least two years older than the rest of the room's occupants – did not seemed fazed by this at all, but was merely staring straight ahead with a dreamy little grin on his face.

While John was not sure whether or not he was completely gay (read: that brunette in the front row was really quite pretty, and his grandfather _had_ assumed that he like girls), he was positive that he wasn't completely straight either. But this boy's beauty – _"Beauty?" Since when was that an appropriate masculine adjective?_ – was unnerving in its stark otherworldliness. He was a hodgepodge of sharp angles and soft lines: pale, full lips were offset by high razor cheekbones; luminous almond eyes contrasted with a sharp, strong nose. And his _skin_. God, most corpses had healthier colour than this desk-island-of-one dweller – thick, curly ebony hair framed a face so pallid that John began to worry whether or not the boy was even breathing.

John realised belatedly that he was staring at the gaunt teen's chest – to make sure he was inhaling and exhaling at regular intervals, of course – right as the warning bell rang, signalling that class would begin momentarily. Hurriedly he went to sit at the last available desk in the classroom, which was in the fourth seat of the desk column furthest from the door. The tardy bell rung just as a dark-skinned woman with bushy hair dashed in as quickly as her heels would allow and dumped a stack of folders down on her desk in the corner with a haphazard _fwump_, taking a clipboard from the top of the stack and handing it to the student in the topmost corner of the room.

"Right, the attendance sheet is going around," she said, walking over and shutting the classroom door. "I have your argumentative research essays graded and will pass them back at the end of class. Are there any questions on yesterday's homework?"

A single, white hand rose. Ms Donovan – John had just remembered her name – breathed in through her nose slowly. "Yes, Sherlock?" she said.

The boy – _"Sherlock?" What an…interesting name_ – smiled a grin that did not quite reach his eyes. "I have a question about yesterday's writing topic," he stated in a pleasantly smooth voice. John's eyebrows shot up. He was English as well.

Ms Donovan almost looked as though she didn't want to hear what the boy said next. "What exactly did you have trouble with?" she asked warily. "Did you have a problem interpreting the quote?"

"A little," Sherlock said. "I was a bit put off by the wording and had a difficult time pinpointing Wilde's meaning."

Ms Donovan wrote a sentence, a quote by Oscar Wilde that John had never heard before, on the whiteboard in blue marker: _True friends stab you in the front_. "Perhaps the class can help clarify with their own interpretations," she said, turning to face the room. "Who would like to share what they think this quotation is about?" No one raised their hand. Her gaze swept the rows of desks. "Kaden? What's this quote about?"

"Uh…friendship?" hedged a beefy, red-faced boy wearing a hockey jersey in the fifth row. John had to try very hard not to smile.

Ms Donovan had apparently mastered her poker face, because she said, "That's certainly true," without batting an eyelash. "Anyone else?" As her eyes roved the room once more they landed on John and she blinked. "Oh, yes, I forgot. Everyone, we have a new student – go on, stand up and introduce yourself."

John stood slowly and resolved that if he had to do this in each class today he may very well go mad. "H-hello," he said, eyes darting around the room. "My name is John Watson and I'm living with my grandfather for the next little while."

"Are you from England?" asked a girl two seats to his left.

"Yes," John replied. He had no idea why, but the rest of the students were now staring at him. Including Sherlock, John noted, an indecipherable expression on his pale face. "May I offer my interpretation of the quote?" he asked hesitantly.

"By all means, John," said Ms Donovan.

"Well, I think it's about being honest," he said. "People may talk about you and make fun of you behind your back, but a true friend will tell you the truth to your face. Even if the truth seems harsh and you feel offended at first, they're still doing it in your best interest because they care about you." After saying this he quickly sat down, feeling even more self-conscious than before.

Ms Donovan smiled. "I think that's a decent interpretation, John. Since you weren't here yesterday to receive the assignment, I'll have you turn it in tomorrow. One page on your interpretation, handwritten with the quote at the top." She turned to Sherlock. "Did that help you, Sherlock?"

He smiled that not-smile again. "I suppose," he replied pleasantly. "I just got rather hung up on thinking about stabbing for quite a while and ended up writing about that instead."

As a few children in the class shuddered, John began to see why the boy was so alone.

* * *

_Is it breathing? I think I just saw it move._

John stared in consternation at – what was supposed to be – beef stroganoff on his Styrofoam lunch tray as he made his way to a cluster of metal lunch tables on the school lawn. He noticed that the brunette girl that had smiled at him in English waved at him from a table on the right; smiling in return, he headed over and sat next to her. She was tall and slender, with those black hipster Ray Bans and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

"Hey, John," she said.

"Hi," he said, feeling flattered that she'd invited him over. "I think it's fair if I find out your name now."

"It's Mallory. These are my friends—" Here Mallory rattled off the names of the boys and girls at the table; John smiled and nodded at each person in turn, though he couldn't remember any of their names five minutes later. "So, you said that you're living with your grandpa for a while, right?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"He's dying." The table quieted, and John felt his ears go pink. Well, Mallory had been unabashedly direct, so he thought he'd be the same. "Cancer."

"Man, that really sucks," a boy across from John said. "What's with this cancer? Freaking everybody's getting it."

"John, I'm so sorry," Mallory said, her eyes widening. "I mean, my grandpa died right before I was born, so I didn't get to meet him or anything, but still...that must be really hard."

"Well, it's harder on my mum," John replied quietly, poking at his lunch with the plastic fork. "He's her dad, you know? I didn't see him much growing up." Not that that was necessarily a terrible thing, but you don't say that sort of thing on your first day of school. Deciding it was time for a change of subject, he turned back to Mallory. "How far are we into the term?" All he got was a blank stare. "Er…_semester_?"

"Oh, just a couple of weeks." The other teens seemed relieved that John could occasionally speak Americanese. "Most of the teachers here aren't too bad, so they'll probably help you get caught up."

"Especially Anderson," said a redheaded girl on Mallory's left. "He doesn't seem to care about anything, so he'll probably just exempt you from everything you've missed so far." A few people snickered at this.

"What's funny?" John asked.

Mallory rolled her eyes. "The chemistry teacher is sort of crazy. No big deal."

"Hashtag understatement," the redhead snorted. "He's nuts. At least he has a reason, though."

"What do you mean?" John pressed, visibly curious. "What made him crazy?"

Nine heads simultaneously swivelled around to look at a figure sitting against a gnarled tree at the edge of the grouping of tables. "Him," Mallory muttered.

John turned to look as well. And lo and behold, sitting beneath the tree, scrawling something frantically in a beaten leather notebook, was Sherlock Holmes, the boy from English that was fixated on stabbing. Again, John was struck by how unsettlingly handsome the ashen teen was. Without warning, the loner's head jerked up as though he'd been electrocuted, his cold light eyes darting up to stare at John. Startled, John stared back. Suddenly Sherlock grinned, but it didn't look friendly, it looked sort of _feral_, and John's stomach lurched. Who the hell was this kid? John tore his eyes away from the solitary boy and turned back to face the others at the table. "What's the matter with him?" he asked, brow scrunched in confusion.

"Dude, if I knew, I'd try to knock it out of him," the same boy from before said. "That guy's a freak. Showed up here at the beginning of the semester, said he was 'visiting family,' just like you, and he's been creeping the hell—"

"Ethan!" Mallory scolded.

"_Whatever_—out of everyone. Even the teachers hate him. Mr Anderson's gonna end up in a mental hospital if that freak keeps going to class."

"What'd he do?" John asked. Surely a student couldn't cause so much trouble….

"Mr Anderson thinks Sherlock's been trying to poison him," Mallory said with an accompanying eye-roll. "He can't prove it, but I wouldn't be surprised—Sherlock's a better chemist than he is. I once saw him asking the librarian if the school had any books on 'untraceable toxins' or something like that. I've never talked to him, though, so a lot of it's just rumour. Still, it's probably safe to just keep away from him and his weirdo cousins."

"From the family he's visiting," clarified Redhead. "Sherlock's in the year above the brother and below the sister. They have weird names, too. Tuesday and Pugsy, or something like that. They're all pale and they're all creepy."

John heard a chuckle from right behind him and his heart shot into his throat. "Why, Ashley, that might be the nicest thing you've ever said about me."

Everyone turned, startled, to see Sherlock standing directly behind John, staring down at the seated teenagers in what could only be interpreted as an eerie sort of amusement. He was a lot taller than John had realised, over six feet, and cut an intimidating figure in the midst of the noisy lunch area.

_Everyone needs friends_, John told himself firmly, and with resolve and a large exhale of breath through his nose, he stood and offered his hand to the so-called freak. "John Watson," he stated firmly.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side in a birdlike manner and stared at the proffered hand. "The one with the fascinating ideas about metaphorical stabbings," Sherlock said musingly. He looked up at John with those quicksilver eyes and that predatory leer. "Delighted." He grasped John's hand firmly.

John noticed that the hand he was shaking was covered in strangely coloured stains and the odd scratch here and there. And that it was bloody ice cold. He repressed a shudder—it felt like he was shaking hands with a corpse. Sherlock must've noticed the shiver, though, because his smile widened and he pulled John a bit closer. "You have nice eyes," he murmured, lowly enough that Mallory and everyone else at his table couldn't hear. "Especially when you're afraid." The smile widened. John let go of Sherlock's hand like it was a red-hot poker. He opened his mouth, about to tell the young man off, then came to the realisation that he had absolutely _no_ idea how to respond to such a comment and promptly shut it again.

Sherlock smiled beatifically at John and said brightly, "I think we'll become marvellous friends, John Watson. We could do so much together."

"…Sorry?" John said. What else _could_ he say, really?

Sherlock looked to his immediate right and nodded at a space of thin air. He looked back to John. "See you in class tomorrow." And he left, taking his notebook with him. John's eyes followed the strange boy back to the shade of the ancient tree, where he sat staring into space, knees drawn up to his chin as though he were a child.

_What. The. Actual. Fuck._ "Does he do that to all of the new people?" John turned and sat back at the table, his nose wrinkled in consternation. "Was that some sort of initiation? Are you having me on?"

The others at the table were staring at him. "He never talks to people," Mallory said, forehead creased. "Why did he talk to you?"

John stared at his food until the bell rang.


End file.
